When I got home, the house was dark.
Every light was off.
I remember thinking, stupidly, Of course. They forgot.
But the moment I flipped the switch—
“Surprise!”
The room exploded into noise and color. Streamers cascaded from the ceiling. Balloons bounced across the floor. Music blared. A massive cake sat on the table—shaped like a princess castle, complete with turrets and sugar flowers. My secret obsession. One I’d never admitted out loud.
My father stood near the back of the room, arms crossed, watching my reaction like he was bracing for impact.
He’d invited my entire class. Every single one. He’d tracked down parents through the school directory, arranged rides, ordered food, coordinated everything with military precision. Pizza boxes lined the counter. Presents were stacked haphazardly, wrapped in glittering paper that caught the light.
For once, laughter filled our house.
For once, I felt... normal.
He even joined in—awkwardly tossing a balloon back and forth, missing half the catches, scowling when kids laughed and then surprising everyone by laughing too. When it came time to blow out the candles, he stood close behind me, clearing his throat like he didn’t quite know where to put his hands.
“Happy birthday, kiddo,” he’d muttered, ruffling my hair with uncharacteristic clumsiness.
I’d never felt so seen.
Those moments didn’t erase the years of distance. They didn’t excuse the coldness, the control, the silence. But they mattered. They rooted themselves deep inside me, stubborn and aching, refusing to reconcile with the man Ruslan described.
That was what shattered me now.
Because monsters aren’t supposed to do things like that.
And if my father could drive through a blizzard to save my lungs...
If he could plan an entire birthday just to see me smile...
Then what had he become?
Or worse—
Had he always been this way, and I’d only seen what he wanted me to see?
The thought hollowed me out.
Loving my father had never been simple. It had always felt conditional, precarious, like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and convincing myself the ground was solid.
I was eleven when I learned how quickly his affection could curdle into cruelty.
It had been one of his rare “family dinners,” the kind that felt more ceremonial than warm.
The long table gleamed under soft lighting, crystal glasses aligned with obsessive precision, silverware polished until it reflected our faces back at us.
He poured himself a drink in his favorite whiskey glass—an antique passed down from his grandfather, treated less like an object and more like a relic.
I reached for the salt.
My elbow clipped the stem.
The glass tipped, teetered, then shattered against the marble floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever.
